


A Late Summer Night's Dream

by cordkitty



Series: One Shots and Prompts and Stuff for Lokil Lavellan [7]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Meditation, Solas wallowing in his infatuation, Soul-Searching, a forest at night, an immortal's struggles, and trying to figure out a way forwards, and trying to reason with himself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-19
Updated: 2017-03-19
Packaged: 2018-10-07 16:18:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10364514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cordkitty/pseuds/cordkitty
Summary: Attention! Very sappy :) Solas doing some (lovestruck) soul-searching.





	

He takes a slow, deep breath, trying to slow the beating of his heart. Its soft thudding sounds seem out of rhythm with the noises of a forest at night - the melodious hum of the crickets and the birds' last chirrups of the day - as he attempts to clear his head and listen to his own thoughts.

Every time he closes his eyes the image of her this afternoon ghosts before his closed lids. There were autumn-leaves in her hair when she finally returned to camp a few hours back; he'd been looking for her, against his better judgment, and attempting to avoid raising the suspicions of their companions and the Inquisition's many helpers who are travelling with them. He had found himself unable to stay away, and even though he'd had no clear idea of what to talk about when he _would_ eventually find her sitting under a tree or working to help with the many tasks at hand, he'd still kept looking.

But he hadn't found her. She had left the camp and walked off by herself, where to he didn't know; when he asked where she'd been, a tinge of annoyed impatience in his voice - betraying just a little too much of his eagerness - she simply smiled, her eyes downcast, and an irresistible blush creeping up her cheeks, and didn't answer.

But no opportunity to talk to her again presented itself for the rest of the day; and so, when night was falling and he found himself unable to sleep, he got up out of his uncomfortable and too-cold bedroll with an irritated huff and left the camp quietly, but not without slowing down his agitated steps almost imperceptibly when passing her tent. He'd hoped that his restless heart might still as the world around him stilled, the trilling chirps of birds replaced by night-time's perfect silence. He thought he might be able to wallow undisturbed in his boyish infatuation, a little ways away from the crowded camp.

But unlike so many times before when he found refuge in nature's stillness to search his own mind in peace, he now realizes that there's no such peace to be had here either.

The last traces of a late summer day's sunset have vanished on the horizon now, and the silvery shadows cast by a few wispy clouds that are drifting along the twinkling canvas of the midnight sky are dancing through the branches of the trees and over the mossy forest ground.

But Solas almost doesn't notice the beauty he's surrounded by; the only beauty his longing mind seems to recognise anymore is hers. The nightingales' tuneful song seems to urge him on, telling him to listen to the flutter of his heart; He struggles with the uneasy confusion of not knowing his own mind and its relentless and uneven beating makes him fidget constantly with unrest. He finds that the soft tingling of wet grass against the back of his hand, which is hanging limply down his side, is distracting him; as is the gentle pressure of cold hard stone against his lower back. There's a tension in him he hasn't felt in a long time, and it takes him several long moments of staring at the stars above, his brow creased slightly with confusion, to figure out what it is.

He's in-

He gives another exasperated and irritated sigh, trying to keep himself from even thinking it.

This is ridiculous. He is even older than the ancient trees he is surrounded by, older than this forest, older than the statue on whose back he is reclining - and far, far older than the soul he is contemplating now. He should know every last corner of his own mind far better and more completely than any other living being could say of themselves. He has seen countless ages pass, the rise and fall of civilisations - all of which were sworn to outlast the centuries and didn't; but he is still here, still enduring the constant struggles and the numberless blows that life deals out each day. He was there to witness each and every one of mankind's unsteady, ever-changing ideas of how the world works come and go and come again more times than he can count. None of them ever achieved a sense for what they're made of or what they were once meant for. None of them even came close to the wisdom he was _born_ into.

But with a resigned sigh he finds that he has to admit to himself that, apparently, the thing he knows the least about is his own nature.

Here he is, a man so old the humans he lives with now could hardly even grasp the concept, and at the same time a love-sick whelp; he ponders all the things he has achieved, remembers all the corners of this vast world that he has travelled, the wonders he has seen in the next - an old soul, a dreamer suddenly so uneasy he cannot find sleep, of all things.

Instead, the memory of her, who should be so insignificant compared to all that he has seen, haunts him even to those parts of his own mind that he thought he knew best. It is absurd.

And yet.

Maybe this rather arrogant assumption of superiority is precisely what is keeping him from understanding himself. He may be old, wise even, a soul that has grown, steady and smooth, intent and deliberate; but becoming that man has also cost him dearly. He never really lets the idea surface and work its way to the forefront of his mind - not fully - but it always lurks beneath; that distant memory of a man that isn't called a god or branded a traitor. And isn't it this man's nature to want this? To feel like this? To want to love and be loved in return - and he finds that he can answer this question. He can accept that beneath the layers of hurt and beneath his strong sense for the fulfilment of his duty there are still the yearnings of a living, breathing being. And as the thought settles on his mind, the tension leaves his body, washed away by how he has reminded himself of a part of him he had long thought lost.

Suddenly, the soft tickle of the grass against his skin doesn't bother him anymore, and he relaxes the muscles in his back to mould against the statue's back rather than struggle against its gentle presses.

He takes another deep breath, calmer than before. And as he does, he notices the sweet and earthy smells of the forest in the warm night air. A sense of calm spreads from within and makes him feel that he and Nature are equals again as he revels in its beauty. The nightingale's song doesn't seem so irksome anymore, and suddenly he can't remember why it bothered him before. Its languorous melodies speak of devotion, of tender aches and restless, joyful anticipation - an ode he would dedicate to _her_.

He can feel her here, sense how close she is. She is in the air around him, in the trees, the way the stars twinkle back at him from high above and the smell of wet grass that clings to the night. Something is coming. But the thought of what that something is doesn't seem so threatening anymore, doesn't seem to lurk in dark corners or hang heavily in the air, looming, like a coming storm. His restlessness changes into something sweet; a yearning he hasn't known for a long time.

He misses her.

And as he grants himself this honesty, all at once the way forward seems clear. He still can't know for certain how she might react to his fumbling attempts at making her see his love and whether she will accept him - he does not _dare_ to hope. He cannot phrase this jittery feeling in such a way that she might understand his meaning without it losing the subtlety he means to preserve so as to not overwhelm with his words. But maybe she can tell by the way his voice sometimes stumbles nervously, or how he always needs something for his hands to hold onto when his knees feel shaky when they speak - his way of trying to keep himself grounded.

However he is going to do it, whatever they are going to talk about - he will go to her, he has to see her. Now.

He swings his legs lightly to the side and gets up from where he has been reclining on the back of the statue of a wolf raised in the middle of a clearing; and he walks off, back to camp, a new spring in his step, without looking back. If he _had_ looked back, the sight of the now abandoned clearing and its lonely, stony occupant on whose back he has been lying for most of the night reminding himself of his feeling nature, might have reminded him, instead, of another part of him, a different part; the part that could easily wreck his new found resolution to give in to the gentle beatings of his heart, if the thought of her hadn't swept it out of his head for now.

But Solas keeps his eyes fixed ahead to where he can see the golden glow of the still burning campfires dancing between the tall trees. It's almost morning now - she might be up already - and a mist begins to envelop the still dark pines as a new day is dawning.


End file.
